


I Love You Enough to Put a Bullet in Your Brain

by lilsmartass



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Betrayal, Gen, Poison, Sometimes even Natasha Romanov panics, The teeniest hint of Clint/Phil, no, really - Freeform, this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:58:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsmartass/pseuds/lilsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only way to kill Clint and Phil is poison from the hand of a trusted friend. Natasha centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Love You Enough to Put a Bullet in Your Brain

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Easier to Just Kill Them All](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/26995) by Anonymous. 



> Rating: PG-15 for themes of betrayal and main character death  
> Disclaimer: Not mine unfortunately, though considering what I put them through, probably for the best.  
> Warning/Spoilers: ANGST, all the angst ever, and main character death. Also, a warning for betrayal. The characters that die really don't see this coming. Even by my usual standards, this is not a happy fic. Unbetad.  
> Genre: angst, hurt/no comfort, gen, the absolute tiniest hint of Clint/Phil established relationship, Natasha centric.
> 
> A/N: Dedicated to the writer of this wonderful fic: http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/17385.html?thread=38345705t38345705. That is actually a humour piece, but it brought me this line: "Poison for Clint," she replied immediately. "Him and Phil both, actually. No one could approach them with a weapon so it would have to be handed to them by a friend." which wouldn't leave me alone so...  
> Also thank you to Sealcat who found the link for me.

Natasha takes her time flicking through the photographs which have been left outside her door. They’re good quality, close-ups, all taken from within the helicarrier. She sits on her bed, back to the wall, and examines each and every one.

She features prominently, and she knows every person in them. Fury is in a good number, focussed on his bridge monitors or giving commands. Off to the side of many of those photographs – full colour, not stolen security footage – is Hill. Natasha can see her readiness in every line of her body, poised to enact whatever orders Fury is handing out.

Then there are the ones not taken on the bridge. Sitwell in his cramped analyst’s office taking a scrolling page out of one of his machines, or typing quickly, eyes riveted on his screen. There’s Ward in the loading bay and Morse out on the pad with the Quinjets.

Towards the back of the stack are literally dozens of Phil – working, driving, unlocking the front door of the off-base safe house even she’s only visited once or twice, quirking his mouth at something someone just off camera has said – and still more of Clint – shooting, eating, climbing into the vents, his booted feet on Phil’s desk as he gestures wildly.

The ones of her are scattered throughout, and though she takes her time over every picture, heart beating frantically despite her expressionless façade, those are the ones she skips over the most quickly. How could somebody get that close and she not notice? Her skin prickles uncomfortably, hot then cold, not with shame, but unease as she turns to one of her, taken the previous night as she undressed for bed. She’s too well trained to look up so overtly but her eyes flicker from side to side, over walls and ceiling. Are they watching her now?

Even her superlative training can’t repress the gasp when she turns to the final picture. It’s her. Her sleeping face looks so young in repose. She looks helpless. There’s a man sat at the foot of her bed and she flinches as she sees him sitting there, sitting where she is now. If someone had told her yesterday that someone would be able to come into her room while she slept without her permission or even notice she’d have laughed in their face.

It’s not the fact of his presence that makes her heart stop racing, stop beating at all. She recognises him. She could never forget that face. That is the face of every monster in the shadows that she has ever feared. Ivan Petrovitch, her first handler.

He isn’t looking at the camera, but instead at her, and the possession on his face makes her grow cold.

Natasha checks the photographs, and the envelope one last time, but there is nothing. No clue. She knew, from the moment she saw that last photograph that there wouldn’t be. Petrovitch is too good.

She stands, tucking the photographs away and crossing to her locker. On the top shelf there is a metal box. She rolls the dial on the front, imputing the combination and it springs open. Haphazardly she empties the content – stupid little tokens brought back from missions in exotic locals, stupid to allow that kind of sentiment – onto the floor. She presses on the bottom of the box and the hidden compartment slides back, allowing her pull out the tiny packet she keeps there. For emergencies.

There is enough poison for one. If she is careful, for two.

Petrovitch will not allow her to harm herself, and if she tries she will lose what chance she has. Her hands are not shaking as she puts the packet into her pocket, not as she drops the box on the floor amidst the detritus of what used to be important enough to be kept there.

“I’ll come,” she says to the empty room, calm and quiet and steady, “I’ll come to you. But there is one thing I must do first.”

There is no answer. She didn’t really expect there to be. Petrovitch isn’t known for his mercy, but he is a practical man. He will see the value in allowing her to carry out one task in exchange for not having to take her by force.

The break room is crowded. Natasha chats idly with a couple of junior agents as she waits for the new batch of coffee to brew. She offers her opinion – scathing – on Morse’s latest conquest while she stirs in Phil’s cream and Clint’s sugar. Her unamused glare promises certain death to the agent stupid enough to tease her for taking the two men coffee like a good little woman. No one ever sees the packet; people see what they expect to see.

Clint and Phil are in Phil’s office like they always are post mission. There are mission reports and empty Chinese cartons spread out between them. The desk is between them, they are never anything less than professional on SHIELD ground, but Clint is twisting his wedding ring around and around on his finger. He hates having to remove it for missions, but it throws off his draw.

Because it is expected, Natasha teases him for his obvious tell and shoves the chipped off white mug into his hands. It hurts like a knife to her own back, but if Petrovitch is deep enough in to take those photos, he’s already won. This is the last measure of protection she can give them.

Phil glances up at her in brief surprise and makes space on his desk for the cup.

“Thank you. Do you need something?”

Natasha shakes her head. “No. But I heard it was a rough mission. I thought you two might be here late.”

“Awww,” Clint takes a deep drink that empties half the mug and Natasha doesn’t grimace, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away, “you do love us.”

She rolls her eyes and affectedly examines her nails. “No. I love me. And the best way to keep me safe is to keep my usual back up happy.”

Phil offers her a toast with his mug. “Pragmatic,” he agrees approvingly.

She watches him drink too, not allowing herself the luxury of not seeing and then assumes a flirtatious smile. “Just like my handler taught me.” She doesn’t say which handler.

Phil doesn’t answer, instead he looks at his cup in surprise. “This is good. It’s…did you make us a fresh pot?”

It was the least she could do.

Phil is looking at her with genuine concern. “Is there something wrong?”

And that…that she had not expected. Before she can formulate a lie or a jibe however, she sees his eyes dart to Clint, Clint who is already listing in his chair.

No one would accuse Phil of anything other than brilliance, but there is confusion on his face as he looks at Clint, and the empty mug cradled in Clint’s now limp hands, and then at his own mostly empty mug and back to her. It slows him down.

“It was the only way,” she offers softly, words spilling from her lips because they deserve something, something more than poison from the hand of a trusted friend.

He’s unarmed in here, because here he is safe, but Natasha sees Phil lurch, in uncoordinated movements, for the gun in his drawer. He lacks the strength even to get it open, but even so, he manages to raise his head to look at her with absolute hatred. “Why?”

“Because they would have used you to punish me.”

She doesn’t allow herself to leave until hers is the only breathing in the room, and then she heads back to her own quarters, certain he will be waiting.


End file.
